Three wide terraces sloped downwards towards the sea, thrusting
forward into the waters. On the centre one of these terraces,
beneath a straw-thatched roof supported on bamboo canes, lay Olivia
in a long wicker chair, her light-coloured dress contrasting with the
brown-and-white fur stretched out beneath her, which she had thrust
here and there, as fancy dictated, into the interstices of the
wickerwork. She had turned away from the light, and was gazing
eastward, where the sky was aflame with the reflected glow of the
sunset. Then, from her eyrie, she looked down towards the bay and
the little grey town on its shores, and it was as if all the
legendary lore that had grown up around the castle of her Dalmatian
forefathers in the course of centuries were gathered into one vast
legend, embodied in herself alone. Her mien was threatening rather
than pensive; her eyes domineering and gloomy as she stared at the
huddled houses below, which sheltered a hundred poverty-stricken
fisherfolk--who, dumb and sullen, continued to tolerate the yoke of
servitude imposed by her ancestors. She felt very much alone; but
she was not alone. A girl of sixteen was sitting near by on a low
stool. Her hair was golden like Olivia's, but not with so dazzling a
sheen; her eyes had the tranquil look of unawakened maidenhood, her
lips were full, but innocent; she looked like a young madonna,
entrancing with the promise of womanhood. Her hands were clasped
behind her head, and her eyes were fixed on the western sky where the
colours lingered, though the sun had set. Without a desire in her
heart, she sat contemplating the fiery interplay of sky and sea,
merely enjoying the spectacle before it vanished, gratifying the
natural instinct of her youth. But the big woman's gaze was full of
anger as the evening closed around them.
Maria, who was almost young enough to be Olivia's daughter, had been
reading aloud and a book lay within reach of her hand. It was a
dishevelled and forlorn little object, as its pages fluttered in the
breeze now blowing from the sea. Ever since Gregor's death had given
her back her freedom, and had simultaneously condemned her to a life
of solitude once more, Olivia had taken to reading again; yet she
harboured a peculiar kind of hostility within her against the books
of her own choice. Her searching, restless heart, wearied with the
habits of her class, found no comfort in the tale of the doings of
imaginary characters. She had hoped to read studies of free people,
but found that their lives, too, were involved in inextricable
tangles.
Olivia had returned to her ancestral hall with the coming of spring,
and her mother (a worldly and vigorous lady) had started for Rome two
days after the daughter's return, intending to enjoy a few weeks of
society life. Olivia had herself proposed the journey to her mother
in one of her letters, hoping thereby to shorten the period of their
life together that summer.
So long as she had the old castle to herself Olivia found it a
beautiful refuge. But when her mother took it into her head to fill
it with Dalmatian nobility (as she purposed to do this year with a
special end in view) the place became intolerable. To dream away the
hot days lazing on the broad terraces, very slightly disturbed by her
son's little friends who came and went; to take a leisurely bathe in
the blue waters of the bay; to lie about a great deal; in the morning
to gaze westward, and as day drew to an end to turn and contemplate
the eastern sky; occasionally to read a strange and fascinating book;
it was thus she had thought to pass her time till the end of June,
undisturbed, save for the company of this young niece whose quiet
ways she loved, and whose gentle fingers proved to be strong and
supple when, seated at the piano, she would play a fugue of Bach or a
chaconne. And when on retiring to bed Olivia kissed the girl
good-night, she would inhale the subtle aroma of womanly locks, and
feel her pulses stir uneasily in never-satisfied expectation.
The bay was usually calm; from time to time fishing boats would
furrow its waters, trailing the long nets homeward with the morning
catch; twice a week the steamer from Trieste would put in to shore,
or, if by chance the sea was agitated, the captain would send the
dinghy instead, for every one eagerly awaited the mail-bag. These
afternoons Olivia was disinclined to spend out of doors, for her
untamed, undisciplined nature resented having to wait and to keep a
lookout, and the steamer never arrived at a definite hour. Every
other day in the week she could lie on the terrace in perfect
security, knowing that nothing was likely to arrive from the outer
world and establish a claim upon her against her will.
It was, therefore, with a feeling of alarm rather than of joy that
she now saw, rounding the point in the gloaming, the nose of a
vessel, which soon revealed itself to be a white ship. She called
softly to the girl beside her:
"Maria."
Startled by this unusual interruption of the silence which she knew
her aunt loved, the young girl swung round, and, as she turned, she,
too, caught sight of the vessel.
"A ship," she cried, "a white ship! It is not one of ours--and she's
turning round!"
"What do you mean?"
"She's changing her course, she's making for land, they are going to
come ashore!"
The girl ran to the railing.
Olivia, too, rose and moved towards the edge of the terrace, but
before she reached it the voice of her little son came to her from
below, calling eagerly up to her and her companion.
"Mamma! Maria! There's a cutter in our bay. I'll run down to the
harbour, I must see it close...."
The household bestirred itself, there was much talking and guessing,
and when, half an hour later, a sailor under Clemens's somewhat
imperious leadership handed Olivia a note, she guessed at once who
had landed on the shores of her little realm.
"My dear Countess, Prince Eduard was informed while we were in Venice
that you had returned home. The 'Excelsior' is lying in your bay,
but we still have steam up, so that you may feel quite at liberty to
say if our advent is inopportune. In that case we will run up a flag
in salute, its message being: Au revoir. If, however, we shall not
be a burden upon you or upon the princess, your mother, we can be
with you in an hour.
"SCHERER"
They had planned to stay a couple of days but to make the yacht their
headquarters as far as sleeping and feeding were concerned, for they
could imagine the confusion the unexpected arrival of five guests
would cause in this sleepy little household. Scherer, even as he
proposed this arrangement, had secretly hoped the party would veto
it, for he would willingly have entered upon more commodious quarters
than the yacht could offer. Since that early morning talk as they
lay outside Leucas his spirit had been casting new and ever renewed
circles around Diana, and when, two evenings ago, the prince had
paired off in so determined a manner with her in the gondola, Scherer
had resolutely tightened the net. He felt his senses more and more
stirred as he perceived that she and the prince were drawing
together. Kyril's silent observation had the effect of making her
appear more desirable than ever. He had been rather surprised when
both Eduard and Kyril acquiesced in his proposal, and could not help
wondering whether they, too, had secret fears of what the freer
intercourse ashore might entail, and had therefore elected to remain
together on the yacht.
The meeting at the castle was as natural and simple as could be; it
seemed as if they had all been parted for no more than a couple of
weeks. That Olivia's mother was away made the company feel more at
ease; and Maria, to whom all of them were strangers, immediately made
friends with Wilhelm, who, at the very first handshake, laid his
heart at her feet. Being the youngest of the grown-ups, he was
seized upon by Clemens, who was attracted to a man whom his elders
called a poet, and with childlike impatience the boy insisted on
dragging Wilhelm away from the rest of the party. Thus it was that
Maria, Clemens, and Wilhelm sped gaily away, a trio of youthful
freshness and innocence.
Kyril and Olivia felt hostile towards one another at their first
encounter. Reserved, cold, and ardent, as they both were at bottom,
they exercised that inimical attraction for each other which serves
as a bond between persons who temperamentally mistrust happy
encounters. It was not in error, but by malice aforethought, that
the Russian insisted on addressing her as "Your Highness," as if he
were resolved not to let her forget her royal descent. Defiance
severed these two from the rest of the cheerful company, and welded
them together against their will. The situation at once became
apparent. During one of the first walks in the park, whose shelving
terraces had been cut out of the mountain face, and along which
little paths zigzagged up the steep acclivity, Scherer had said to
the prince:
"Have you noticed? The countess, too, never laughs."
"Had she not been born in a castle, our Russian friend would find a
way to make her open her lips. He'd only have to show his own fine
set of teeth!"
"And all this is yours," exclaimed Wilhelm with the gracious gesture
of a king of balladry, embracing in the sweep of his arm the whole of
Dalmatia. He was flanked on either side by Maria and Clemens, the
three of them dancing lightly along well ahead of the others. "And
to think we can explore the whole place to our hearts' content! Are
there many quails and lizards? Let's have a hunt! Now!"
"It's getting too dark," said Maria demurely, although she would have
loved to begin the search at once. Clemens was quick to feel how he
was to deport himself in respect of the other two.
"We have some with blue heads," he said, as if speaking of his
subjects. "They live in our grottoes above the seashore. It's an
awfully difficult climb to get to them, but I've climbed up twice,
with Giro."
"Let's take Giro along with us tomorrow morning," suggested Wilhelm,
wondering who Giro might be.
"I will order him to be at the Rocco Grande at six o'clock without
fail," said Clemens grandiloquently.
"He'll not be back from the fishing grounds at six," put in Maria.
"When we have guests, he does not need to go fishing," said Clemens
decisively.
Diana, at the outset, had joined Kyril and Olivia in the dark avenue
of ancient yews. But the stuffiness under the thick arches of the
trees and the oppressive silence of her companions made her break
away into a gayer atmosphere. Thus it was that she had overheard the
amusing braggadocio of the little boy who was the son of her dead
friend. She sought some likeness to his father in the lad's
countenance, and, drawing him towards her, said, swinging the hand he
had clasped in hers to and fro:
"But what shall we do if there's nothing to eat, Clemens?"
The boy, hitherto absorbed in Wilhelm, whose droll ways attracted and
pleased him greatly, had not taken any notice of his mother's other
friends. Now, hearing himself directly addressed, he looked up at
Diana, and suddenly recognized her as a lady who had come to tea with
his mother at the embassy. And yet his recollection of her was
somewhat blurred, for two years had passed since then.
"We have heaps of fish, you know. A whole lot of fish in the
larder." Torn between perplexity and arrogance, he lied with the
utmost assurance. Then adroitly changing the subject: "D'you know
I've got a boat! Have you seen my boat?"
He pulled vigorously at the lower ends of his short breeks as if to
make trousers out of them--had he not besought his grandmother for a
year and more to allow him to wear trousers? Only since his mother's
return had she prevailed upon the princess to concede the boy's
urgent request. The trousers had been ordered, but they were a long
time coming, and here were these strangers--of course they chose
today for their visit--and he was still in shorts. Was it any wonder
this beautiful lady should address him by name? Clemens, indeed!
Just as if he were a kid!
Diana was struck by the lad's question: Have you seen my boat? Were
not those the very words Gregor had spoken, Clemens's father, so
cheekily and gaily, so wilfully and yet so shyly? She sensed
instinctively that the boy wished her to treat him no longer as a
child; yet she wanted him precisely to give her a child's trust, and
not the homage of a youth, since he was not yet old enough for that.
"Where is your boat? Ah, of course, it'll be at the landing-stage,
near the 'Excelsior'!"
"Is that the name of your yacht? The 'Excelsior'?"
"Yes. But it belongs to Herr Scherer."
"Then you are not--I thought..."
"No, I am not his wife; what made you think so?"
"It just looked as if you must be, when you arrived."
"His instinct makes him astute," thought Diana; "for if I were the
wife of any man in our party, surely Scherer is the most likely mate."
"Just give me a good look, Clemens," she said; "see if you can't
recognize who I am."
She stopped in the middle of the path, and the youngster turned face
about. They had come to a bend in the path, and while they stood
thus inspecting one another, the other walkers had room to pass.
Wilhelm and Maria went slowly by, and Diana heard the poet say: "We
shall probably cruise about for another week, but I can land wherever
I please...."
"That would be jolly," answered Maria.
Then Clemens was speaking.
"Yes, perhaps I do, but I'm not sure," and he fidgeted from one foot
to the other. "Weren't you at the embassy once when my father was
still alive?"
The boy no longer says Papa as in those days, thought Diana. Death
and fate have turned Gregor into Father! Ah, those were Gregor's
very eyes, the ne'er-do-well, the deceiver.
She forgot to answer.
"Park with groups," she suddenly heard the prince say, for he and
Scherer had now reached the bend where she and the boy were standing.
But she sensed that in his heart he was saying: Even today, through
the medium of the son, that man's image is still alive in her
heart--ineradicable.
"Yes," she found herself answering, "yes, I was at your house once.
And now, shall we go and find your mother? How do you like that man
over there."
"That is Prince Eduard. He used to be with us at the embassy." The
child spoke as if he were commending a bailiff to her attention.
"No, not that one. I mean the man who is walking with the countess."
Clemens, who had been feeling embarrassed by the turn the
conversation had taken, was relieved to find that it was Wilhelm
Diana was referring to. His tone became livelier on the instant.
"He ought to remain here with us. He's just the man we want, for
he's never shy, and he isn't so very old, and I'm sure he's not a
nobleman."
His choice of words, his tone, the gesture with which he smoothed his
hair, all were reminiscent of Gregor, Gregor as he must have been
before he had earned the nickname "mad Münsterberg." "Because he's
never shy ... and I'm sure he's not a nobleman." Diana smiled.
Meanwhile Olivia and Kyril had come to a standstill. The countess
had an innate repugnance to doing the honours of her ancestral home,
to showing guests round in the approved manner of an obliging
hostess; while Kyril was not one to ask the questions appropriate to
his rôle as guest; they had, therefore, strolled along in silence
ever since Diana had cut herself loose from their company. One
question only had dropped from Kyril's lips:
"You know Fräulein Wassilko?"
To which Olivia had answered:
"Yes, I know her."
Her velvety alto came as a beautiful counterpart to his deep baritone.
But that was as far as they got, and these two, who so heartily
disdained the conventions of society, were grateful to each other for
such abstinence. Now, however, they had reached the end of the
winding path, and had before them a series of steps and terraces upon
which Olivia was unwilling to embark until the rest of the party had
rejoined her. Negligent hostess though she was, even she felt it
might not be seemly to proceed farther without at least pointing out
the most hoary of the ancestral towers to her guests, for this was
always the culminating point of interest to strangers. Every one was
now assembled on the green before the walls, and Clemens saved his
mother the trouble of speaking by acting as guide, pattering a few
dates and names, without much cohesion in the tale he was telling.
Scherer's accurate mind rebelled against such vagueness, and he
insisted on more precise information, endeavouring to disentangle the
stories of two knights, and in the end turning amicably to Kyril who
had been listening the while with an expression of superlative
contempt to the confused narration.
"After all, my dear Doctor, we cannot unmake the events by denying
them, any more than we can take what beauty there is in them away by
being cynical," said Scherer in conciliatory vein.
"All superfluous," commented Kyril dryly.
"I find this giant growth of ivy wholly charming," said the prince,
who always came to the rescue with banter when a situation threatened
to become too romantic. "And so far as the robber forefathers of
Master Clemens are concerned, whose history has just been told us
with so much lucidity and interest, they were at bottom no worse than
any of our own ancestors--unless, of course, Dr. Sergievitch can
prove the contrary."
"I shall have great-grandchildren," said the Russian; "I have no
ancestors."
"Your ambition, then, is to be an ancestor yourself?"
"My grandchildren will have to forget me, just as I have forgotten my
forbears. Deeds alone are lasting, not names, nor pictures."
"Simplicity personified: no oil paintings, no photographs," snapped
the prince.
"Deeds?" The clear voice broke into the conversation like a clarion
call. "Did these robber knights, then, perform no deeds?" It was
Diana who spoke, coldly and challengingly.
"Nothing but adventures," retorted Kyril, from the opposite side of
the circle the company had grouped itself into. His manner equalled
hers for coldness, and he frowned as he spoke. "Those who played the
vagabond in their day, like these Dalmatian nobles, without an idea
in their heads, may serve as forefathers to a line of descendants and
have the memory of their deeds preserved in an ancestral tower. But
we, today, do not wish to work merely for a castle or for a family.
We are working for the whole of humanity, Fräulein Wassilko."
"Car tel est notre plaisir!" Diana tossed the phrase across the
circle, as if she were desirous of unveiling the inner meaning of his
words by the quotation of a tyrant's dictum.
She turned on her heel, and the assembly broke up into groups,
continuing down the steps and the terraces which led to the inhabited
parts of the castle. Maria, somewhat alarmed at the asperity in
Diana's tone, looked up at Wilhelm inquiringly: "Who is--the young
lady?"
"I don't know," answered Wilhelm humbly. "In the end she always
comes out victor."
Clemens marched along at their side, cudgelling his brains to
remember which of the French kings had said those words. "I read
about him only the other day," the boy said to himself. "In my
history book.... Who could it have been?"
Olivia followed with Scherer.
"What concern of ours are the deeds of these robbers?" she asked
gloomily. "Far better were it to be descended from peasant
forefathers."
"It's precisely because he is the son of a peasant stock, that this
Russian is so arrogant."
"And he is really a bandit," chimed in the prince who was following
close at their heels in company with Diana.
"The Russian?"
"The knight!"
"But this Russian can't be allowed to play the high priest and cast
my life in my teeth!" Olivia spoke so acrimoniously that the prince
felt he must do something to conciliate her. With deliberate
mendacity he shouldered the Russian's implied blame, as he said:
"His reproaches were aimed at us, not at you."
Diana, amazed at such a friendly deception coming from Eduard, turned
to him radiantly, asking:
"How now, prince, do you mean to tell us that you, too, have had
adventures?"